


A New Wind Blows

by BlackAquoKat



Series: Between the Sinners and the Saints [3]
Category: Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)
Genre: Amnesia, Cameos, Other, nonbinary DA, return from the dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28041222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackAquoKat/pseuds/BlackAquoKat
Summary: In which a certain someone returns from the dead.
Relationships: Actor!Mark / Y/N District Attorney
Series: Between the Sinners and the Saints [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1532777
Comments: 24
Kudos: 35





	1. Prologue: A Whisper in an Alleyway

A century is a long time to live with the agonizing guilt of past actions. An awful long time because the average human should not live for that long in the first place.

But Mark hasn’t been an average human since the events at his old home so long ago.

He’s had time to move on, physically at least. Starting his YouTube channel, playing games, raising money for charities, it's the kind of public performances he always wanted to do, but on a smaller, less corruptive scale. Putting his acting skills to good use and re-building his fortune from the ground-up.

Emotionally?

The guilt still runs strong. Whether Mark was influenced by that darker entity or not, he would always be responsible for all the death and destruction that took place that day.

His thoughts spiral into reflections of that time as he sits in front of his computer to edit his latest video. Questioning how he could have ever considered doing the things he did, reaming himself for being such a heartbroken idiot…

…missing his friends.

_Life is for the living. But your friends are dead, and you’re close enough._

Mark shakes his head and returns to the tedious void of editing. It’s hard to remind himself not to dwell on the past, but lately, he’s been doing better about it. It helps to keep busy with the channel, and to obsessively plan for the next project he can lose himself in planning.

He’s startled out of his momentum by a pounding at the door. He goes to open it and sees Benja— _Tyler_ on the other side, hands on his knees, panting like he’s run thirty miles.

“Why the _hell_ aren’t you answering your phone?!” Tyler demands, holding his own cellular device as proof of trying.

“My battery’s dead, are you okay?” Mark asks. “I thought you were just going to get McDonald’s—”

“I’d be _fine_ if you actually charged your phone more than once a day, but that’s not the point, you gotta come with me, right now!”

“Wait, why—”

But Tyler grabs Mark’s hand and tugs him out of the house and into the car. As the vehicle speeds down the road, Mark suddenly wonders if his only surviving friend has finally lost it.

“Tyler, what is going _on?”_

“It’s better that you just wait and see—”

“You can’t just break down my studio door and not expect questions—”

“Just shut up and wait!” Tyler shakes his head. “Look, I’m sorry, but really, you wouldn’t believe me unless you saw yourself.”

Mark settles into the hot leather of his seat, arms crossed. He feels highly uneasy about this, but he can’t put a finger on why. Aside from Tyler _definitely_ speeding to wherever the hell they’re going.

“Slow down! You keep going this fast, you’ll get us killed!”

“Oh, you came back just fine last time!”

This is _really_ not the time to make petty jokes about that. “I think the circumstances would beg to diff—”

Mark lurches into his seat belt hard enough to hurt as Tyler slams the car to a halt and leaps out to the street.

“C’mon!”

Mark hesitates when he sees the suspicious alleyway Tyler has parked in front of. “Um…Tyler, if I’ve done anything to offend you this century—”

“MARK!”

“Okay, okay, keep your pants on!” Mark follows Tyler into the alley.

“No, no, no, _no,”_ Tyler mutters, as his gaze rakes up and down the alley. He finds a vacant cardboard box big enough for a person and gestures wildly to it. “They were right here, I swear to _God,_ they were right here!”

“Tyler, who are you _talking_ about? What’s going on here?”

Tyler’s hand runs through his hair. The look in his eyes is almost manic. “They should be here, I told them to stay—”

“Um…hello?”

A hoarse voice cuts through Tyler’s frustration. Mark switches his attention from his friend to the newcomer standing a little further into the alley, half behind a dumpster—

Mark does a double-take.

No.

No, it’s impossible.

The person is obviously homeless, in a heavily stained over-sized hoodie and jeans so tattered Mark can’t believe they’re holding up. The shoes are in a similar condition to the jeans. Their face is gaunt and sickly, eyes nearly popping out of their head.

But those eyes, century-old eyes…

Unmistakable.

In another life, those eyes broke and mended his heart countless times.

The District Attorney shuffles forward, a limp in their step. They’re looking at Tyler. “I…I didn’t think you were actually coming back…” Their hands are stuffed into the pockets of the hoodie. “Thanks for the burger…”

Wait…why aren’t they speaking to him? They looked _right at him_ —

“No problem,” Tyler dismisses. He grabs Mark by the shoulder. His grip is tight, a silent message to play it cool.

(What does Mark even look like right now? Hopeful? Heartbroken? What’s he supposed to _say? Why don’t they recognize him?_ )

“This is Mark, the friend I told you about,” Tyler introduces. “The one who’d like to help you, I mean.”

Their eyebrow lifts, and the shy bemusement, so achingly familiar, nearly sends Mark to his knees. “The one who wasn’t answering his phone?” They sound like they haven’t spoken in years, a scratched record of a voice.

“Yeah, he’s bad at battery management,” Tyler jokes. He pulls Mark back and gives him a very purposeful look. “Our friend here,” Tyler shifts his head in the DA’s direction, “is a little lost. Has been for a long time.” Tyler turns back to them. “Isn’t that right?”

“Yeah…I guess…” They shake their head. “My head is a little… _blank_ , I guess would be the right word.” They pull their hands out of their pockets, thin and bony like a skeleton, and hug their arms around their body. “I saw Tyler on the street, and…I swear he looked…and _you_ look…familiar, maybe.” They swallow, the action rather frightening in their veiny neck. “I’m sorry, I sound crazy—”

“No!” Mark interrupts, the first thing he’s said since laying eyes on them. He pulls out of Tyler’s grip and steps closer to them. “No, you—you’re not crazy, you don’t sound crazy.” Shit, he’s acting weird, he needs to back off.

_My head is a little blank._

No clear recognition in their eyes.

They’re _alive_ , somehow.

 _They don’t_ _remember_ _him_.

And at his sudden loud word, they finally make direct eye contact with Mark. His breath catches at how hesitant they look, the fragile hope and despair in their face.

“You…” They clear their throat. “Tyler said you could help me…but I’m a stranger, I’m sorry, this is weird, if it’s too much to ask—”

Mark reaches his hands out and grips their upper arms. When they immediately flinch, he draws back.

 _Shit. This is…this isn’t good, how are they here, they’re alive, they’re_ alive, _but…they look so_ dead _. What the hell happened to them?  
_

Mark straightens, a new resolve coming over him.

“Yes, I’m going to help you.” Mark glances over his shoulder to see Tyler watching them both carefully. Tyler's weird behavior all makes sense now. He looks back to the DA. “You’re going to come with us, you’re going to have a home, food, and maybe even a job, if we play our cards right.” Mark takes a chance and steps a little closer to them. “I’m going to keep you safe. I promise.”

He’ll never let them get hurt again. He’ll never hurt them again, he swears on his life.

A rash promise, perhaps, but seeing hope light up those dim eyes makes it all worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was the second Acting Attorney Prompt I ever wrote for the fandom! We've come a long way since then, haven't we? Anywhoodle, if last installment was a slew of Hamilton References, expect a slew of lyrics and quotes from Anastasia for this one. Hope you guys like it!
> 
> And as a reminder, this is ACTOR Mark, NOT real Mark. I don't like writing for real people and their lives, and let's face it, this universe is a slippery slope that he created. Since there's not a proper tag for Actor Mark, I made my own, because I don't want there to be any confusion. This is the actor, Mark Iplier, not Fischbach. Thank you for your patience!


	2. A Past to Bury

Mark has spent the past century or so of his life desperately trying to rediscover meaning in his life. 

A difficult thing to do, in the beginning, when he was simultaneously coming to terms with the fact that he had basically spent the better part of his life under the possession and influence of a shadow demon.

The longer he had hidden himself away to avoid the fallout of the party at his manor, the more his mind slowly shed the darkness which had so long overshadowed his mind and actions. He realized exactly what he had done, and began to wonder if it had been worth--why did he do it, again? What was the end result he was hoping for, again? Revenge, yes, but--why did he need Damien’s body? Why did he trap Celine and Damien in the shadow realm? It started off so simply and turned into a...well, what _did_ it turn into? He left as soon as he took over Damien’s body. How did it all turn out?

He hid away in one of his family’s old estates to await the end results. When he managed to collect a newspaper, the headline regarding the missing Mayor was expected. He felt an initial stirring of guilt, and then he read the actual article--

_The last sighting of Mayor Damien Goodwin was in his office, before he departed to Markiplier Manor for a rumored gathering. The newly elected District Attorney, long-time friend of the mayor, has also not been seen since the same gathering and no evidence of either’s whereabouts has been recovered since their disappearances--_

(He remembers dropping the mug of coffee he was holding at the time, and not noticing as he fervently scanned the rest of the article, the full weight of what he had done crashing upon him entirely. He barely noticed as he stepped across the spilled coffee and somehow avoided the shattered shards of ceramic. He proceeded to break most of the fragile valuables in the estate in a fit of grief.)

He wandered, after that. Out of the city, over state lines with little to nothing to his name other than what he initially raided from Damien’s home. He wandered for years. He cried all the tears he could cry. He drowned in his regrets and only stayed somewhat sober during most of that time.

Mark couldn’t say, exactly, what hit him and when. Maybe it was looking up one day and realizing that the world around him was changing and all he had done was wander through the streets like a drunken madman (which he was, he will fully admit). Maybe it was seeing so many others with less than what he had been born with on the streets as well. Maybe it was realizing that brooding on his mistakes wouldn’t change what he had done, and it wouldn’t bring his friends back. 

And so, with the attorney’s face in his mind, Mark checked himself into the nearest rehabilitation center, sobered up, and got to work.

He worked odd jobs to build up his fortune, sold off old relics he found at his family’s old properties, and built up a following on the newest growing medium for popularity and prosperity: the internet. And then, from there, YouTube.

Mark gave away large chunks of his fortune when he could, publicly and privately. It was after one of his anonymous donations that someone found him.

There was a knock on his door and suddenly, standing before him, was Benjamin. Who proceeded to punch him in the face before inviting himself in and brewing a pot of tea. Once a butler, always a butler, apparently. Although Mark was still processing the fact that Benjamin was _alive_ and on his front stoop in the first place.

“I know that was your donation at the Goodwin Foundation for Homeless Teens,” Benjamin said, apropos of nothing. “I’ve been working there half-time for a year now. So talk. What happened at the manor, and what the hell are you doing?”

“Benjamin, I--”

“It’s _Tyler,_ now. _Talk.”_

So Mark talked. He explained everything. The Shadow Entity and its affect on the house and those who lived there. What the plan had been and what it had turned to. His descent into alcoholism and his rise from it. His newfound determination to at the very least do some good in the world to outweigh all of the terrible things he did.

Benjami-- _Tyler_ listened to all of this. By the end of it all, he nodded. “Chef is alive. I’ve seen him around. I don’t know about George, or the Detective, or...or the Colonel.” He crossed his arms. “I guess...It’s been so long. I can’t believe you’re here. That you’re alive, and…” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I guess you’re accomplishing _something_ good.”

Conversation tapered off after that. Tyler left soon after and Mark didn’t hear from him for almost a month after that. Then, suddenly, Tyler appeared again at his front door. “Do you need someone to work with?”

And that was that. And sure, perhaps their way of helping the world is unorthodox and mostly consists of them goofing off so people will donate to good causes, but they are good causes nonetheless. Tyler has mostly forgiven him, or at least decided to move on from the past, and Mark will forever be grateful that at least one figure from his past has acknowledged how he's changed. It gives him hope that maybe his efforts aren't for naught.

Mark was as content as he could be, even with all of the skeletons scratching at his closet door, reminding him of what he’d done.

But now the attorney is here too. They’re _alive._

The trouble is...he and Tyler figured out why Tyler has survived for this long. But why and how is the attorney still alive? And why don't they remember anything?

Mark has no answers yet. But he plans to find some. And he is determined to help the attorney if it's the last thing he does.


	3. Rain Against the Window

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an edited version of a prompt I once answered on Tumblr, much like the prologue of this story was. Hope you guys like it!

It takes some time for Mark to get the former District Attorney acclimated to living in an actual home.

As soon as they arrived at his home, they asked to use the shower. The hope in their voice was so fragile at the time. It took an hour-long shower, a bottle of body wash, three bars of soap, and half a shampoo bottle before they decided they were presentable. (“I had trouble figuring out the hot and cold settings, but I…I’m not sure why…”) Considering how small they were, Mark had to call a few friends, Ethan for example, to inquire about old clothes they didn’t mind lending out.

Once the attorney was bathed and adorned in clean, if not fresh, clothes, they resembled an everyday modern citizen. It is a rather unsettling sight for Mark. Not just because they’re still emaciated and haggard, but more because he still expects to see them in the regalia of the 1940s.

Mark offers them the spare room in his home and from there, he’s not entirely sure _what_ he should do. He posts an update about taking the week off from making videos in order to offer his friend his full attention. This includes making sure they eat, taking them to shop for non-hand-me-down clothes, and answering _most_ of their questions.

That last one is the most just how deep the former DA’s amnesia runs. Not only do they have no recollection of their life before the manor, they also carry little to no knowledge about modern technology. The first time the microwave alarmed, they yelped and fell off the kitchen stool.

This opens up even _more_ questions:

How long have they been alive? ( _Are_ they alive, though? Their skin is cold to the touch, and Mark’s not always sure he feels a pulse when he holds their hand to lead them down through the city.)

What happened to them in the manor?

_Why_ don’t they remember anything since then?

About half a week in, Mark discovers yet another problem his old friend is facing.

Mark has always had trouble sleeping, especially since the Manor. He doesn’t know if it’s just the after-effect of interacting with the Dark Entity for so long, or if it’s just further evidence of how deep his guilt goes, but there it is. Now that the former DA is back in his life, he’s more restless than ever at night. 

On this particular evening, there's a storm outside. Lightning and thunder affects him in a rather visceral way these days. He gives up rather quickly on sleep when the thunder kicks in, so he decides to go binge-watch _One-Punch Man_ or something.

Upon arriving in the living room, he sees the DA lying on the floor in front of the couch, staring up at the ceiling without a focus point in their gaze. Couple _that_ with the strange paleness of their dark skin, and the hands folded on their stomach, and they eerily resemble a corpse.

Mark has only a moment to be embarrassed about wearing pajamas with his brand (why should that embarrass him _now_? It never bothered him before) before he announces his presence with a question: “Are you okay?”

They startle out of their position, eyes wide and breath quick. Mark is relieved to see them move.

“Oh, hi, Mark. I, um…” They clear their throat and shuffle to their feet. “Sorry, I’ll go back to the room—”

“No, stop that,” Mark reassures them. “You’re out here for a reason. What’s the matter?”

“Um…well…” They shrug helplessly. “I can’t sleep.” Seeing the question in his gaze, they continue, “The bed is _really_ soft, I feel like I’m going to fall through to the ground, then I keep turning the light back on because something about the dark makes me feel trapped, and the storm outside almost _hurts_ , and…” Their hands run through their shorn curls. “And…I saw my reflection in the window, earlier, and had this urge to throw a chair through it, so I decided to come out here instead. Property damage is a pretty awful show of gratitude, you know.” They avoid his gaze as they confess this.

“How long has it been since you slept?” Mark should have noticed the exhaustion in their shadowed eyes, but he’s been a little more concerned with how visible their ribs have been through the tighter shirts they’ve worn.

“I don’t know. One maybe… four days…”

“Wha— _four days?”_ Mark pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I’m sorry, I don’t want to cause a problem,” they apologize. “I didn’t mean to wake you up—”

“You didn’t,” Mark interrupts. “I have trouble sleeping too.” He looks at the TV, then back at them. “May as well stay up together. What do you say to some tea and maybe a show or two?”

They sigh, probably relieved he didn’t try to make them go back to bed. Tyler’s tried that once or twice with Mark, to no avail, so he knows better.

“Sounds good.”

It takes time for Mark to decide what to put on for them after making the tea. His first instinct is maybe an Agatha Christie adaptation, but then he rapidly discards that as too much of a risk. But anything too modern might not work either…

He’s still scrolling through titles on Netflix when his friend perks up. “Was that _Poirot?”_

“I…yes, yes it was.” So much for no Agatha Christie. “So this is your vote?”

Their enthusiastic nod is enough for him to queue the first episode. He’s never been much for period dramas (considering he lived through some himself), but mysteries aren’t so bad. And with their tea in hand, both of them sitting on opposite ends of the couch, Mark almost feels… _normal_ again. In a way he hasn’t since the last time he and his friend spent time together so long ago. He can almost ignore the thunder in the distance. The attorney jumps at each lightning strike in the distance.

A few minutes in, Mark risks a glance at the DA. They look lost in thought. “Are you bored?” he asks. “I can change it, if you want.”

“No, no don’t! It’s just…” They shake their head. “This…this feels awfully familiar.” Their hands tighten on the steaming mug of tea. “But I can’t place why…”

Mark keeps still, waiting for…he’s not sure. A spark of recognition? Hatred?

He won’t lie to himself. As soon as the realization of a mostly-alive DA sunk in, Mark feels like he’s been given a second chance to right the wrongs he’s done to them in particular, from both before and during the events of the Manor. Part of him desperately wants them to _see_ him, know who they had been to each other…

But the smarter, more self-aware part of himself realizes that, given his past actions and their history as a whole, their reaction to his identity would definitely be less-than-flattering.

He would rather wait to see which option he’ll have to deal with.

Their gaze clears a moment later. “Sorry, that sounds crazy.” They take a deep breath, and let it out, and turn their eyes back to the screen. “Thanks for the tea.” 

The tension leaves his shoulders, but the guilt seeps in to replace it.

One day he’ll tell them. When he’s brave enough to face the disgust they’ll undoubtedly treat him with. In the meantime, he'll deal with the current storm of a situation.

Half an hour later, Mark and the DA fall utterly asleep on their respective sides of the couch, while the show plays on before them. 

Tyler finds them in the same position the next morning. He sighs and shakes his head. He grabs the throw blankets from the back of the couch and drapes one over each of them. “Here we go again…” he mutters as he goes to cook breakfast.


	4. Nothing to It

Even though Mark is taking a break from videos to help the attorney, Tyler finds himself the primary person helping their newfound housemate with technology and modern living. Mainly because Mark has more of a tendency to destroy and mutilate technology more than actually use them for their intended purpose.

It took some encouraging, but eventually the attorney is able to convince Mark to return to his job. Tyler gets the impression that they feel like Mark is hovering, and they’re trying to get him to take a step back so they can figure out some things on their own. They are absolutely correct, but Tyler highly doubts Mark caught onto that ulterior motive.

Mark is filming a livestream when the attorney approaches Tyler in the kitchen. “Okay.” They hold up an android smartphone from the tips of their fingers, as if they are worried the contraption will bite them. “Mark bought me this.” 

Tyler wishes he was surprised. “He...why?” The last word is punctuated with an "of course he did" sigh.

The attorney shrugs. “I think...I don’t know. Anyway, I don’t want to be too reliant on you two, so, could you help me figure this out?” They eye the phone with suspicion. “There’s just too much here. Why do phones need to do so much? Was just _calling_ not enough for people?”

“Nope,” Tyler answers, utterly deadpan. “Our brains need more stimulation these days. Anyway, sure, let’s sit down and I’ll give you a quick tutorial…”

In all honesty, Tyler doesn’t use his phone for all that much aside from communications, internet, and a handful of games. And YouTube, of course. So he coaches them in the basics, and says if they ever want to expand their usage of their phone, they can come to him again.

They smile, grateful, and then duck their head. “Tyler...why am I here?”

He freezes. This is a dangerous line of questions. “I mean...you needed help. You asked for my help.”

“You help every strange homeless person on the street who asks you?” they ask with half a grin. The grin goes a long way to relax him.

Tyler leans back and puts his hands behind his head. “Listen. Mark and I are going to make sure you’re okay. That being said, Mark has a tendency to overcompensate. Big time.” He looks pointedly at the attorney’s new phone. “It means he cares, but, again. Overcompensating. Just remember to set boundaries and remind him that he should ask before buying you a VR headset or something.”

Their expression is thoughtful as they nod. “I think I can do that. I mean, if he wanted to buy me a whole platter of food, I’d be fine with that, but I wouldn't know what the hell to do with a computer.”

Tyler chuckles. “Yeah, I bet. Well, I can’t afford a platter, but I definitely think there are boxes of Pop-Tarts hidden under the staircase. Mark’s in denial about his addiction.”

The attorney laughs out loud, and Tyler thinks for a moment that he absolutely can see how Mark fell in love with them back in the day. He doesn’t know the whole story, but he heard most of Mark’s arguments with Celine--more than he wanted to hear, honestly--and got the gist that one of the many, _many_ things that tore them apart involved the attorney. Mark has given him a little more informatin since the two of them started working together again, and Mark has always been transparent when it comes to love.

He only knew them for those two disastrous days before he left the manor and never looked back. He doesn’t think they realize how bright they shone, even for that brief time. He has never forgotten them. The grief in their eyes and how they powered through it to figure out the chaos around them.

It always haunted Tyler that he never knew what became of them, and it still haunts him that he doesn’t know how they are sitting before him, a nervous shell of their former glory. What could have done this to them?

_No use wondering it right now, when they’re looking at you as if they’re expecting you to join in a Pop-Tart eating frenzy._

Tyler decides to take this new opportunity to get to know the attorney, so long as the three of them are practically living together. He was curious about them Before, and according to Mark, a lot of their core personality traits are unchanged. 

The first thing Tyler learns, this time around, is that the attorney’s two favorite Pop-Tart flavors are frosted strawberry and chocolate fudge. He is very much looking forward to Mark’s reaction to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C'mon, I had to reference the Pop-Tart thing. It was too funny not to.


	5. Things I Almost Remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was another prompt I first answered on tumblr. The dialogue prompt was, "Didn't you read the sign?" Enjoy!

The braver the DA becomes, the more anxious Mark finds himself.

They take to modern technology far quicker than he assumed they would with Tyler’s help and guidance (though they still treat the microwave with suspicion), utilizing the built-in Map feature like a lifeline.

As a result, a month into the DA's tech lessons, they’re exploring parts of the city that _Mark_ didn’t even know existed.

Luckily today is not one of those unpredictable days. Today is just a day where Mark follows as his friend wanders down the sidewalks, staring down at the map on their new phone screen with such focus that Mark has to pull them away from other strolling denizens.

“Maybe look up once in a while?” This is still so _surreal,_ seeing his friend interacting with the modern world, from the clothes to the tech to the food. Today they’re wearing an oversized purple flannel over a yellow shirt, with black pants and a white bandana tied into their hair. He doesn’t know why they chose those particular colors, but at least it’s less pattern clash than they wore back in their University days.

“We seem to be doing just fine,” they dismiss, still staring at the screen. “I found a café I want to try, anyway. It should be up ahead—oof, sorry!”

Mark is so focused on apologizing to yet another passerby victim when he realizes where they are with a panic.

“Wait, don’t--!”

But they’ve already entered through the doors of Planet Peebles café.

Or, as they once knew it, Amy’s Planet.

Mark barges into the café right behind them, but they’ve already frozen in place.

The café has been renovated about three times since Mark last visited way back when, either to fix water damage, prepare for new management, or to replace the floors with something longer lasting. Nowadays, Planet Peebles's color schemes are very warm, earthy, and floral in their decorations, as opposed to the retro diner look it originally showcased.

Still, the place is still undeniably Amy’s Planet, as Mark will always think of it.

These ruminations take a back seat in light of the tension in the DA’s body. “I…I know this place…”

Mark clears his throat. “Um…you sure you haven’t just been here before?”

“No, before you found me,” they argue, “I barely went four blocks away from that alley.”

“Wait, really? How the hell did you find food, then?”

The question does seem to distract them, however briefly. “Begging, mostly. I looked pretty pathetic, if you remember.”

“You could never look pathetic.” Wait, what? Shit, that sounded too familiar—

“Seriously though,” his friend continues further into the café, towards the register, “how could I know this place?”

Mark shrugs. “I don’t know. Um, maybe you came here a few times before you lost your memory.” The lie tastes like battery acid. Technically, it _isn’t_ a lie, but for the number of times he, the DA, and Damien came here before everything went to hell, it may as well be a falsehood. And the fact that he bought out the entire place so he could win back their friendship one time.

So yeah, they’ve been here a “few” times.

“Maybe…” They don’t sound too convinced.

“Well, let’s not just stand here!” Mark takes hold of their arm and pulls them to the register. “You made me skip breakfast for this, so let’s eat!” God, he hasn’t been here since…well, _since_. It’s strange to see modern food exhibited in the display. “How about I get you a—”

“Um, sir, didn’t you read the sign?” the barista asks.

The DA, who had been staring at the displayed food with a perplexed fascination, flushes with embarrassment. “Oh no, I forgot you didn’t open for another ten minutes, I’m sorry, we’ll be right back—”

“No, no, it’s fine.” The cashier is a lovely young woman, with chestnut hair and a sweet smile. She has a contagiously cheerful inflection to her voice. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. Have you been in before?”

The red drains out of the DA’s face. Their tense stance relaxes. “That’s just it, actually. I’m not sure. I have some, um, memory problems, I guess you could say.”

 _Understatement of the goddamn century,_ Mark thinks.

“Well, I’m sorry to say you don’t look very familiar to me. But if you like, I can ask my coworkers if they’ve ever seen you before. Can I take your picture?”

His friend brightens. After they give their consent, the barista pulls out their phone and takes three pictures. “Okay! I’ll let you know if I get any hits.”

“Thank you.” The DA smiles for the first time since they entered. They turn their smile to Mark and then say, “Oh, right, breakfast! What, uh, do you think I should try, Mark?”

“Truth be told, this all looks pretty good,” Mark admits. He turns to the barista. He reads her name tag. “What would you recommend, uh, Rosanna?”

“Oh, you can just call me Ro! And let’s see what we have today…”

Later, as they leave Planet Peebles with one Apple Rose Pastry each, the DA comments, “That’s nice of her, to help me out.”

Mark swallows a sudden flow of bile and guilt. “Yeah, it-it was.”

If the café didn’t trigger anything, then what in the hell _would_ trigger a memory? Sure, it may not have been the most important part of their first life, but they did eat there almost every week for the longest time. What would it take?

“Hey, Mark?”

Mark shakes his head and focuses back on his friend. “Yes?”

“Next time we come, remind me to get one of her pumpkin desserts. They look delicious.”

Despite the anxiety rolling in his gut, Mark smiles. “You liked that place?”

“Yeah! A lot! I want to go back! And…” they shrug. “I don’t know, maybe I’ll get lucky, and someone there will recognize me. I feel like…that place is important, somehow.”

Mark highly doubts anyone will recognize them, being about a century old after all, but still…it seems rude to put a damper on their mood.

“I’m sure someone can help you.”

His inner voice decides to pipe in just then, and it sounds remarkably like the shadows that haunt him every day.

 _Why won’t_ you _help?_


	6. Be Careful What You Say

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The initial dialogue prompt for this one was "I won't lose you too."

Weeks pass, and then months. The three housemates fall into routines and roles for one another. 

In lieu of the attorney's growing number of sleepless nights, Mark at first was quite supportive of their decision to try resting in the Barrel for a while, for a change of pace, lest they once again fall asleep face first into a bowl of cereal.

It seemed to be working. At least, the former District Attorney didn’t fall asleep mid-filming nearly as much these days. He’s still in shock, honestly, that they offered to be his cameraperson when he started the Van Vlogs. In all honesty, he's envious at how much easier the attorney learned new technology. He was rather resistant for the longest time.

The attorney has been in the Barrel so often lately that they’ve even moved some books and snacks into there. Mark sometimes will find a random Snickers bars at his feet when driving the pair of them somewhere for breakfast. He has stayed in that hot, uncomfortable vehicle to chat and eat meals with them long after the sun goes down before retiring for the evening. It has been a pleasant, domestic routine to settle into.

But then someone tried to break into the Barrel.

The incident upset him more than even he realized, apparently. It wasn’t until weeks later that it occurred to him, when he found out that the DA was _still_ sleeping in the Barrel after the attempted break-in. He did _not_ take it well.

And okay _fine_ , they had a few good points.

Was anyone hurt?

No.

Did the Barrel get fixed?

Yes.

Did everything essentially turn out alright?

 _Yes_.

Did that mean he wanted his friend to keep sleeping in the now-compromised vehicle?

_Hell no._

Which leads to why he’s grabbing hold of their tightly-gripped blanket in an effort to keep them from leaving for the Barrel, all while Tyler watches the angry game of tug-of-war with growing frustration.

“Mark, let go of my blanket!” they repeat for the fifteenth time.

“Only if you’re sleeping in the house tonight!”

“I tried that already, and it didn’t work. Just let me go, it’ll be _fine_!”

“How much longer do you think this will go on for?” Tyler asks in a bored tone. He’s laying on the couch, chin resting in his propped elbow. “I’d like to get some sleep myself, you know.” A long yawn punctuates his statement.

“See, Mark?” The DA gestures to Tyler’s position. “We’re keeping him up, too. So stop overreacting and give me my damn blanket so I can get some sleep!”

“What if something happens to you?” Mark insists. “Did you ever think of that?”

“Mark, come on, it was one time, and it was _weeks_ ago—”

“What if you had been in the Barrel when it was broken into? What if they decided they didn’t want to leave a witness behind? What if I came back and _found your dead body_?”

He let go of the blanket sometime during his rant, growing more and more frantic in tone. The DA didn’t charge for the Barrel. Both they and Tyler, instead, look at him with rising concern.

“Mark—”

“I’ve already lost _everything!”_ he shouts, heedless of Tyler’s panicking gaze. “I won’t lose you, too!”

_Not again._

_I can’t do it again._

Mark doesn’t realize what exactly he’s said until he finally sees Tyler looking between him and the DA as if waiting for a train to crash. The DA’s face is a strange mix of confusion and worry.

He buries his head in his hands.

He said too much, he _always_ says too much.

Fine, he may be overreacting about this situation in particular, but he won’t apologize for the uneasy feeling slowly wrapping around his chest like a vice over the idea of losing the DA all over again.

But he can’t explain that to them. Not when they still don’t remember.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters into his palms. When he pulls them away from his face, the DA is closer to him, hand half-raised between the two of them. “You can sleep where you want. I can’t tell you what to do.”

He hurries upstairs before either of his friends can call after him.

* * *

The next morning, he comes down to the kitchen area and the DA is sitting on a stool, poking their fork at a plate of eggs. Tyler is at the stove preparing more food.

The DA looks up when he steps into their line of vision.

There is a moment where neither of them speak. It’s just a moment of wordless communication.

None of them were in the right last night. Mark should not have reacted the way he did, and the DA could have been a little more understanding.

So they both nod and smile with a little hesitance, before the DA takes a bite of their eggs (covered in far too much cheese, as usual) and Mark gets a plate ready for the next batch.

Mark is so relieved at the truce that he doesn’t catch the attorney giving him suspicious looks out of the corner of their eye as they eat.


	7. My Heart and Mind at War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: Three Times the DA is warned about Mark, and One Time they come to their own conclusion on the matter, for now.

The shadows follow you.

At least, it feels as though they do.

It’s one of the reasons you’re so grateful that Tyler found you when he did. Introduced you to Mark, who took you out of that alley. For the first few days of staying there, it seemed like you had recovered well, in spite of your almost permanent state of insomnia.

But then the shadows return, mere days after you arrived. Deep inky shadows with long tendrils closing in on you, encircling your neck, pressing onto your chest. The tendrils strangle. They bite.

They _whisper_ to you, in garbled, static tones, a high-pitched sound of wrongness ringing in your ears.

_Let me in…_

_This will work…I promise…_

_I’ve missed you…very much…_

The words cut into you, deep enough they would leave marks if words could do so. You could not for the life of you say _why_ they hurt so badly. And the shadows…they’ve been following you for as long as you can remember (which isn’t far back, but somehow that makes them feel all the more eternal), and you don’t know if they’ll _ever_ leave you alone.

What the _hell_ do they _want_ with you?

Something that makes the situation even stranger: the shadows recede every time Mark is nearby.

You can’t say why, not really, but you’re not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. You’re lucky enough that you don’t have to come up with excuses to be around him, and not just because you live with him now. He’s tutored you enough in the tech he deals with that you’re able to film his vlogs in the Barrel. But even beyond that, Mark…

He seems to need you around as much as you need him.

At first, you don’t think much of it. Mark’s a caring person, and he took you in, a complete homeless stranger. But you catch these strange, probing looks from Tyler once in a while. Not directed at you, but at _Mark_ , like he expects his friend to…

Well, you’re not sure. But Tyler’s obvious suspicion makes you approach him one day during one of the rare times Mark isn’t with you. “Tyler, what’s your deal with Mark?”

The directness of your question makes him spill the soda he was drinking onto his chin. Once he finishes wiping the mess away with a nearby dishtowel. “Um…what are you talking about?”

“Tyler, I know I look like a clueless ghost wandering aimlessly through the streets of despair, but give me some credit. You may have a face like a Roman statue but you’re not an _actual_ stone.”

He blinks at you like a befuddled owl. “You come up with the weirdest and most depressing analogies.” He tosses the dish towel behind him, where it lands on the floor with a _plop._ “Look, Mark is a good guy. But…he worked very hard to get to this point. I’ve known him longer than anyone,” he stumbles through the declaration with less confidence than you would have expected, “and I can admit that he wasn’t always such a good guy. And sometimes, well, I worry he’ll fall back into old habits. So I keep an eye on him.”

“If you’re so worried about his behavior, why did you introduce us?”

Tyler shrugs. “I figured he could help you. And it’s been good for him too, having you around. You bring out his good side more often.” He takes a thoughtful sip of his soda. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t keep my eye on him. Not after what I’ve seen.”

Your brow furrows. He’s dancing around a tender subject, that much is obvious. “What did he do, Tyler?”

Tyler shakes his head and gestures with the soda can. “All I’ll say is this: I love Mark like a brother, and I always will. But don’t let your guard down around him. Okay? If he hurt you, I don’t think I’d ever forgive him. And I don’t think he’d forgive himself, either.”

* * *

If it had just been Tyler saying such a thing, you might not have thought much of it. You’re not one to let your guard down around anyone, and that actually feels… _normal_ , you suppose. Like that might have been how you were before you lost your memory.

It’s a comforting thought, even if it means thinking suspiciously of Mark, who’s been nothing but kind to you. You’re not a fool, you know he’s hiding _something._ Whether it has to do with you personally or with his own past, you couldn’t say, but nonetheless, it’s enough to keep you watchful of your friend.

This suspicion aside, you are fairly confident that Mark would never hurt you, despite Tyler’s concern. Not on purpose, anyhow.

One day, you’re eating at Planet Peebles by yourself when suddenly the chef, a large intimidating man waving an icing pouch like a flag, bursts out of the kitchen. “Where are the sprinkles? I need the sprinkles for my next order, damn it!” he demands.

While his terrifying demeanor frightens you out of your thoughts, Ro just smiles at him like he asked about the weather. “Did you check on the shelf next to the coffee beans, Chef?” she suggests, pointing to a spot under the counter.

The chef growls and ducks under the counter, muttering under his breath until he appears again, a container of rainbow sprinkles in hand. “What are they doing out here? Those damn unicorn cupcakes won’t make themselves without these, will they?” he grumbles.

“No, they won’t indeed, Chef!” Ro pats his arm with a delighted smile. “Oh, that reminds me! Check out our new regular over in the corner!”

Ro waves a hand in your direction, gesturing for you to come to the counter. “Don’t be shy,” she says, probably sensing your hesitation. “He’s a big ol’ softie under all this grumpiness! Aren’t you, Cheffie?”

Chef barely pays attention to this comment, too busy staring at you as if you started levitating.

Does he…does he _know_ you?

Your reticence dissipates. You abandon your mug cake at your table and approach the counter. “Hi,” you greet in a tone just above a whisper.

“You…” the chef points his icing pouch at you, “…who the _hell_ are you?”

“I…I’m, uh…”

“Chef, this is Mark’s new friend,” Ro answers, upon seeing your nerves return. “They film his vlogs! You know, the ones in the van?”

“Barrel,” you correct in the same quiet voice. “He calls it the Barrel.”

Oh, I just realized!” Ro pulls out her phone and starts tapping the screen. “They asked me forever ago to see if anyone here knew them, so I took a picture of them when they first got here to show around. I just realized I never asked you, Chef! They have amnesia, you see, so—” Ro pauses in tapping the screen, “—wait, they’re right in front of you, you don’t need to see the picture—”

“You’re hanging around Mark?” Chef interrupts. There’s an odd, suspicious inflection to the question.

You clear your throat. “You know him?”

Instead of answering, Chef leans over the glass counter, holding the icing pouch dangerously close to your face. “I’d stay away from him if I were you. That asshole is nothing but trouble, you hear me? Nothing. But. Trouble.”

The chef stomps towards the kitchens again, the door swinging ominously behind him.

“Well, that was strange,” Ro comments. Her face is uncharacteristically concerned. “He’s always been a bit of a thorny rose, but he’s never—are _you_ okay, friend?”

You don’t know if the color draining from your face is what tips Ro off, or just the trembling in your hands. You take in a deep breath, and let it out. “I’m fine. I think I’ll…I think I’ll head home.”

You rush out the door as fast as you can without running outright. In your hurry, you never see a figure lurking in the other corner of the cafe, watching your every move.

* * *

_I’ve been waiting patiently…_

You shoot up from your bed with a start, breathing so hard your chest hurts with the effort.

It’s the shadow, again.

_There is no escaping…_

You’re awake, damn it, why is that awful voice still slithering through your mind, leaving cracks and pain behind?

_I’ve been waiting a long time to see you again…_

With a choking sob, you climb out of bed and stumble towards the bathroom. The cold sink water isn’t a huge help, but it cools you down and pulls you further into the waking world.

But you can still feel tendrils of sleep and darkness reaching for you, trying to pull you back into a forbidding abyss.

Before you even realize what you’re doing, you find yourself outside, clothed in nothing but your pajamas and sandals. You roll with it. Maybe the fresh air will help.

As you stroll down the block, you cast about for something to think about unrelated to mysterious shadows and darkness. Eventually, you recall the Chef who would have looked more at home in a prison kitchen rather than a café studded with pastel aesthetics and cookies shaped like adorable animals.

What does he know about Mark? And why did he look at you like you were a ghost?

What could Mark have possibly done to have Tyler so on edge every time he’s around you?

Why won’t _anyone_ talk to you about the elephant dancing around the room?

You’re so deep in thought you don’t realize the figure approaching you until he grabs your arm and drags you behind a foreclosed home. You fight against your captor, even getting two good shots in with your elbow, one in his gut and the other into his chest before he releases you.

You probably should have run as soon as he let go, but instead you turn around, intending to punch him in the face to deter him from chasing after you, and then—

He looks up at you, your attacker, and even though he’s bent over, heaving from your attacks, you feel _something_ and realize it’s _recognition_.

You know this person.

And all of a sudden, you’re overcome with fear and anger. You know this person _who just attacked you._

“Who—who the _hell_ are you and what do you think you’re playing at?”

The stranger coughs several times before standing upright. “What was that all for?”

“You’re the one who attacked _me_!”

“I just wanted to talk to you!”

“Then why not just _ask_ me?!” You wave your hand to keep him from answering. “Never mind, just answer me: who the _hell_ are you?”

He blinks at you, straightening his askew suspenders. “You…you really _don_ ’t remember, do you?”

Your anger turns into frustration. “Obviously not, but I…I think I know you, don’t I? So who _are_ you?”

The guy turns thoughtful, stroking his chin, where there’s the barest hint of stubble. “That explains it…there’s no way you’d be staying with that son of a bitch if you knew—”

You snap your fingers in front of him to get his attention again. “Answer my question before I call the police,” you threaten, remembering too late that in your haste to leave the house you didn’t bring your phone with you. Not that he has to know that.

“That might be a problem, considering I _am_ the authorities,” the guy quips in a hard voice.

Something about his tone and the actual words themselves cut through your head and you know for _sure_ that you’ve met this man before, heard him say almost the exact same thing once.

Meanwhile, the guy is still rambling.

“I mean, technically I’m just a PI now, but that still counts, ‘cause I can still put people up for arrest—”

You grab his suspenders, cutting him off, and pull him until he’s nose to nose with you. “What. Is. Your. _Name_?” you demand in a quiet, dangerous voice.

He scowls and shoves you away. “Keep your shirt on, Partner, shit. My name is Abe, but you should know that, right?”

The name _should_ be familiar, but no, no further sparks arise. “No…no, I don’t. I feel like I’ve seen your face, but I don’t…” you trail off, feeling as uncertain as before.

Where the hell did all this bravery come from? You could barely look that freaking Chef in the eye, how did you find the nerve to manhandle this guy? Were you like this before?

And why did he just…?

“Partner?” you ask. “Why did you call me that?”

Abe sets his arms akimbo. “Right, amnesia and all that. Look, I didn’t mean to scare you, but I need to warn you.”

“Warn me about _what?”_

He steps closer to you and whispers, “Don’t trust Mark.”

Good God, another one? “ _Why?”_ you demand. “Why do people keep telling me that? What did Mark do?”

“If you don’t remember, you definitely won’t believe me if I tell you,” Abe dismisses. “Look, you just need to get away from him. He’ll only get you killed—”

“What gives you the right to tell me what to do?” you hiss. “Where would I even _go,_ I was starving on the streets before Mark took me in—”

“Starving is better than _dead_ , wouldn’t you say?” Abe snaps. “Believe me, I would know.”

“How the—”

A shout cuts through your conversation, calling out your name. “Where did you go?”

It’s Mark.

“That’s my cue to leave,” Abe mutters. He points at you one last time. “Remember what I said, Partner. Don’t trust him. The pretty ones will always get you killed.”

“I’m sorry, wha—wait!”

But Abe has already ran off, leaving you alone.

“Where are you?”

You stand in your spot for a little longer, feeling as if your last chance for answers has disappeared, before you come out from behind the foreclosed house and see Mark on the sidewalk.

Mark’s shoulders drop in relief when he catches sight of you. “Where have you _been?”_ he asks. He runs up to you and throws his jacket over your shoulders. It’s not too cold, but you appreciate the gesture nonetheless, pulling the jacket tight around you.

This…this feels familiar…

“I’ve been looking all over!” Mark continues when you don’t answer. “I heard you leave, but I didn’t get out of the house in time to catch you and you left your phone and, God, what _happened_? Why did you go?”

You look up at him, this man who took you into his home and offered you food, care, even a paying job. You try to see any indication of malice, something to give you reason to leave.

_Everyone keeps telling me you’re the bad guy,_ you think. _And I know there are things you’re not telling me. You could hurt me. You may have already, before._ _But…_

All you see is someone who seems to genuinely care about you. Who acts like an ass. Who plays videogames with you. Who bought you a phone to use. Who takes you on adventures in his cheap, no AC van. Who stays up with you when you can’t sleep. Who chases your shadows away without even realizing it.

Who knows _something_ about you and your past.

Who came out to find you in the middle of the night, in his ridiculous branded pajamas and sock feet, because he was worried about you.

So you shrug dismissively. “I needed some fresh air. I’m sorry I scared you.”

Mark looks as though he doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t press. “Next time leave a note or remember your phone. I tried to call you. I was worried that…” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. You’re okay. Were you…were you having trouble sleeping?” At your confirming nod, he lightly slaps your shoulder. “I was too. What do you say we go play _Mario Kart_ or something?”

You smile at the offer. “Only if you’re willing to eat my dust, as always.”

“Excuse you, I’m clearly the superior racer.”

The two of you banter back and forth all the way home, and the whole time, all you can think about is how effortless it is to be around Mark, secrets notwithstanding.

As much as you want to know who you used to be, you’re hesitant to ruin this blossoming whatever-it-is between you and him.

One day, you’ll finally confront Mark and demand answers. But for right now, you’ll make tea and play videogames with your friend and enjoy the happy peace while it lasts.


	8. Interlude

“Oh no you don’t!”

“You can’t stop me, can you Mark?”

“Don’t you dare!”

With an evil pixie grin, you hit a button on the controller and let loose the blue shell, knocking Mark’s racing character from 1st place all the way to 6th, leaving you to take the win.

Mark lets out a shout of indignation. “I was _right_ at the finish line!”

You let out a delighted laugh and point your controller at him. “All is fair in love and Mario Kart,” you say in a sage voice.

“Oh _really?”_

Mark tosses aside his controller and digs his fingers into your sides. You shriek in surprise and laughter, trying to pull away. “Stop it, stop it!” you force out in-between laughs.

“What?” Mark’s faux innocent question is more frustrating than what he’s actually doing to you. “Are you ticklish?”

“You’re a _monster!”_

“A _tickle_ monster, excuse you!”

The two of you tussle for a rather lengthy amount of time, you wrestle his hands away from your sides only for him to break through your grip again until you manage to retaliate and distract him from his assault by attacking a spot under his arms.

“Oh, I’m going to kill you for that!” Mark sputters between breaths.

“Not if I kill you first!”

“What are you guys _doing_?”

Mark jumps away from you like a jolt of electricity sparked his muscles. Tyler is standing at the entrance to the living room, looking between the two of you with a rather strange expression.

No, not strange. Just that same suspicion you’ve grown used to since your last conversation with him.

_Don’t let your guard down around Mark._

Finally, you shrug and answer Tyler’s question. “He was angry that I beat him fair and square, so he started a Tickle War he couldn’t win.”

“Excuse you, I think I was winning since the _start_ of that Tickle War,” Mark argues, his flushed face turning back to its normal hue.

“Hey, I was making a comeback!”

“You guys are weird,” Tyler comments. “Just…don’t break the controllers, please?”

* * *

You aren’t surprised, the next day, when Tyler approaches you while Mark is recording videos in his studio. You’re sitting on the couch, cross-legged, reading _And Then There Were None_ for the umpteenth time.

“What’s going on between you two?” he asks without preamble.

You appreciate the lack of pretense. Unfortunately, you don’t have much of an answer for him. “We’re friends. I film his vlogs. We play videogames together.” You don’t look up from your book during your explanation.

“And…have tickle fights?” The skepticism in Tyler’s voice is almost insulting. “Or fall asleep on the couch together at absurd hours of the night?”

“We’re both insomniacs.”

“I think you’re both in _denial.”_

You close your book shut with a sigh. “Tyler, even if there _is_ anything between us, do I really look like I’m in a state of mind to start a relationship?”

Tyler’s hard edges soften at your self-deprecation. “Maybe when we first met, no. But I think you’ve come a long way. If you wanted to, you probably could.” His brow furrows back into serious consideration. “But do you really think _Mark_ , of all people, is who you want?”

“Tyler, I’m a former-homeless amnesiac who can’t sleep and panics in large crowds. Even if Mark _did_ like me, which I doubt, I’m not exactly much of a catch.” The statement leaves you feeling far sadder than you meant it to.

And then…you know both Tyler and Mark know something about your past. How can you knowingly open yourself up to people who are so obviously keeping something from you?

But you can’t exactly open up about that little caveat with Tyler right now.

“Don’t say that,” Tyler argues. “Anyone would be lucky to—”

“That’s not the point, Tyler,” you interrupt. “The point is, I have no intention of jumping into anything right now.”

Tyler looks like he wants to press, but just then, Mark descends the staircase.

“Well, I’m starving! Who wants meatloaf for dinner?”

You and Tyler share a knowing smirk. “Only if it’s Mama Doom style,” you assert.

“Oh, like there’s another way to cook meatloaf, right?”

* * *

Later the next day, Tyler corners Mark while the DA is out picking up coffee from Planet Peebles.

"Mark, what are you doing?"

Mark looks down at the leash in his hands. "I mean. I'm about to walk Chica--"

"You know damn well what I'm talking about."

Regret lines the edges of Mark's mouth. "I...I don't know. I don't know what to do. I thought all the Agatha Christie adaptations would trigger something, but--"

"The longer you put off doing any real attempts to trigger their memories, the worse it will be when they _do_ remember on their own. You know that. If you don't get to it soon, I will."

And since Tyler is in no mood for further conversation on the subject, he leaves Mark standing with Chica at the door in favor of going and taking a goddamn nap. He did not sign up for babysitting this little shit again only for him to make the same mistakes he made a lifetime ago. He's kept his distance because the DA wouldn't be in this position now if not for Mark, and it's Mark's problem to own up to.

He just hopes he doesn't have to follow through on his threat to tell the DA himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long. I've been trying to at least update this weekly, but I had some family drama happen a week or two ago, and it just...it drained me, to say the least. My apologies. Hope you guys like this short but necessary update.


	9. Things Your Heart Used to Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I first posted this on tumblr as part of a 200 Follower celebration. I hope you guys like it!

Mark didn’t think the former District Attorney could surprise him after half-a-year of shared living space, but every time the thought occurred to him, they would do something new to throw him completely off-kilter.

Usually, it’s something harmless. A piece of modern living the DA either completely embraces or rejects.  In this case, it’s music.

Mark wasn’t sure what kind of modern music they would enjoy, if any at all, but heavy symphonic metal definitely wouldn’t have been one of his guesses. He didn’t recall them having a preference for orchestras and opera when he knew them Before. Now it’s almost all he hears when he passes by their room at odd hours of the day.

He knocks on their door one morning, loud enough to cut through the riffing guitars and soaring violins. The music lowers from a Vibrating Walls level of loud to Pulsing Speakers.

“Ready to go?”

“One moment!”

The music cuts off completely, Mark hears something land on a hard surface, then the door opens and there they are, clothed in an oversized lemon-colored sweater and black pants.

“Where are we going today?” Their fingers run through their growing curls. Mark still can’t tell if this is a grooming attempt or just a habit.

Mark shakes his head, dispelling thoughts of how fantastic these longer curls look, the way they caress his friend’s forehead. “There’s this ancient-as-balls house that was just put up for rent. I thought we could explore it.”

Their brow lifts curiously as they follow him downstairs and out of the house. Along the way, they tie a white bandana over their curls like a headband. “What, are you planning on moving? I just got settled!”

“Of course not, this place is way too freaky to live in.” He’s  _ done  _ living in mystic mansions. Once was enough. “I just…I don’t know, I thought it’d give me inspiration for a video, or something.”

Mark won’t go back to his old manor, he just  _ won’t.  _ But he’s wondering if maybe a similar environment can trigger a memory for his friend. He delved into the history of this particular mansion and fortunately, aside from some rather unfortunate scandals attached to the previous owners concerning affairs and at least two cases of incest, it looks as though there are no rumored hauntings associated to dark magic of any kind. No more than the normal for old houses anyhow.

Maybe Mark can finally figure out how his friend ended up starving on the streets, somehow in the same city as him. He’s learned long ago that there is no such thing as “coincidences.”

He gets in the driver’s seat of the Barrel and looks over at his friend. They’re looking back at him, a strange sort of curiosity swimming in their eyes as they tie another purple bandana around their wrist like a bracelet.  But they only nod. “Okay. Should I have brought a notebook or something? To write down ideas?”

“We can just talk into our phones. That’s what technology is for.”

“And how charged is your phone, Mark?”

“Uh…”

They roll their eyes. “I’ll go grab a notebook. I prefer to have ideas written down anyway.”

“Yeah, that’s fair.”

* * *

The Barrel pulls up to the mansion, and Mark hears his friend rifle about in the back before poking their head next to his. “Where’s the video camera?”

“No camera today,” Mark explains. “Just good old-fashioned exploring.”

Their brow furrows. “Really?”

“Really.” He gets out of the van before they can press him for answers he can’t give.

This particular mansion, Mark is glad to see, is very different from his old home. It looks like a Victorian castle bathed in white, with a large stone staircase leading up to an entrance flanked by ostentatious marble pillars. The mansion, from the front, looks like a series of ever-growing cubes lined up one right after another (luckily only stopping at three) with far too many windows to count.

He can practically feel the bitterness swirling around his friend. “If I find out only one person lived in this house with a bunch of servants, I might break a window out of spite.”

Mark tries not to take offense to that. He has no right. It’s been almost a century since his loner playboy lifestyle. “I think it was a family of eight  _ and  _ servants,” he informs as they ascend the staircase.

They adjust their messenger bag of supplies so it rests more securely on their shoulder. “Hm…okay fine, they can keep their windows. But this could still probably house half of the homeless population in the city.”

When they enter the house, Mark can’t help but agree.

At four stories tall, there has to be about six rooms for each floor, if Mark has to guess (and he's probably wrong), but this is only the front entrance, where the guests most likely stayed. Several yards in, the ceilings expand and they find themselves in what can only be considered a ballroom. Or maybe it's just a big-ass main room without the furniture. That would explain the oddly placed loveseat in one corner of the room as well as the wing-back chair and sofa in another corner.

He and his friend waste a good ten minutes lounging on the furniture and ordering pretend-servants to bring fans and hors’doeuvres in mock-posh voices before returning to their exploration. They also waste time taking off their shoes and racing across the marble floor in their socks to see who can slide the farthest without stopping or falling.

(The DA won, despite Mark’s best attempts to sabotage them.)

They ascend the staircase to the right and find what appears to be the family room, with large windows letting in the afternoon sunlight. Dust motes dance ominously in the rays and descend upon the only thing in the room: a piano.

“I guess they decided not to be sentimental about, what, three pieces of furniture?” Mark scoffs. He approaches another wall to examine an abandoned painting of some old woman with four cats in her lap. He doesn’t see the way his friend stares at the instrument, approaches it like it’s a wild animal that could bite them. “No respect for anyone snooping who may need a place to hide from a vicious butt-stabber—”

He jumps about three feet into the air when the unmistakable sounds of piano echo against the walls. He spins to see his friend sitting at the piano.

Their fingers fly across the keys, filling the air with a melody that Mark can’t quite recall. He’s  _ definitely  _ heard it before, but honestly he’s too intent remaining absolutely still so as to not interrupt the moment.  Not just because this was the  _ last _ thing he expected upon this endeavor.

The last time he heard them play the piano, play that specific  _ song _ he realizes, was the day their friendship fell apart.

Right as the thought hits him, Mark remembers the title: Cole Porter’s “In the Still of the Night.”  His friend always did love Cole Porter.

But do they  _ remember _ their Cole Porter fixation?

Do they remember  _ that day?  _ The day he destroyed their relationship?

Do they…?

Too soon, the notes ebb and fade into nothing, but their hands hang just above the keys in the ringing silence, trembling like leaves in a brisk wind.

Mark chances a step closer to them, so he can better see their face.

They’re staring transfixed at the piano keys, a haunted sort of devastation lining their face. “I…I didn’t…” Their mouth opens, shuts, opens again. “How did I…?” Tears trail down their cheeks.

“Talk to me,” Mark says in a whisper. “What’s in your head?”

“I keep seeing someone’s face, someone…his hands are on mine, correcting the-the way my fingers are positioned,” their fingers caress the keys in a feather light touch, “and he…he kissed my head, when I got the ending notes right.”  A choking breath, and then, “He…he told me how  _ proud  _ he was. Of  _ me.  _ He hugged me…he always felt so warm, so  _ safe _ …” They shake their head. “Why can’t I remember his name? He loved me so much and I can’t even  _ remember _ —”

Their fist presses to their lips as they dissolve into more sobs. Mark drops to the bench beside them and pulls them into an hug.  _ Their father,  _ he thinks with regret. Someone he never got to meet. Someone who died long before he met his friend.

Their head burrows into his shoulder, hands gripping his shirt like a lifeline, and Mark tries so hard to find the words to help them, but he’s drawing a blank.  Perhaps…

When their cries quiet down a hint, Mark asks, “Can you think of how old you might have been?”

They sniffle. “Um…I was young, I think…maybe eleven? Maybe younger? I can’t…”

“That’s okay, that’s a good ballpark,” Mark reassures. “What did he look like?”

“It’s all… _ fuzzy _ . I remember feelings more than anything else, but…” Their head lifts a little, and Mark can feel their body tense with a kind of realization. “His smile…he had the most amazing smile. It showed all his teeth, showed his dimples…”

Mark latches onto that snippet. “A dimpled smile, huh?” It pains him to play clueless, but he’s afraid of how they might take any other revelations at this time. “Just like yours.”

Their head jerks to look at him, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to them. “I have dimples?”

“Of course you have dimples.” How would they not know that? “What, have you never smiled at your reflection before?”

He meant it as a joke. But they flinch at his words, pulling away from his arms.  What the hell?

Mark clears his throat and circles back to the original topic. “So, dimples are hereditary I think, uh, so…could this guy be your dad?”

They’re staring at the piano keys again. “Maybe…” Their body is tensing right back up. A classic sign of them closing off from Real Talk for the day.

Mark sighs. “Why don’t we finish here another time? Let’s go get lunch.”

They look as though they want to protest. But as quickly as it comes, the fight leaves their body. “Yeah, okay. But promise we’ll come back? We didn’t even finish this floor.”

If just playing a piano triggered a memory…if it triggered this kind of reaction…

“Absolutely.”

* * *

That night, Mark sits upright in his bed. He strokes Chica’s sleeping head beside him. His thoughts fly a mile a minute as he processes the events of the day.

He has to tell his friend the truth.  _ Soon _ .  If their memory comes back before he confesses and they realize who he is…he may lose them forever.

He may lose them even if he  _ does  _ confess beforehand, when they see the blood dripping from his hands.

_ I killed our best friend…I stole his body… _

_ …I didn’t even stay to see what happened to them,  _ any _ of them… _

These past months have been some of the best of his life. It’s given him a chance to start over with his old friend, get to know them all over again, and provide at least a  _ little _ penance for his actions (he can never fully atone, never).

But he doesn’t know if he can erase that haunted terror in their eyes. Terror of something they cannot even remember.

Terror he’s  _ sure _ began at his manor.

Which brings him back to his dilemma.

If Mark tells his friend what he knows, would they believe him? So much of what he says is…impossible. On those grounds alone they could cut ties with him. But could his confession jog their memory? By keeping silent is he only prolonging the inevitable?

He shakes his head. Of  _ course _ he’s prolonging the inevitable. That’s never been in doubt.

And so his thoughts keep tightening into never-ending spirals without offering any answer to his deepest fear.

_ I can’t lose them again. I just…I can’t. _

A loud “thud” down the hall startles him out of his spiral of conflict. Chica wines awake beside him. A moment later, her ears perk up and she jumps from his bed and trots out his bedroom.

“Chica? Chica, where you going?”

When he enters the hallway, he sees Chica scratching gently at the DA’s bedroom door.

“Chica, no, I’m fine,” he hears when he approaches the door.

“She won’t stop ‘til you let her in,” Mark reminds them.

A muffled groan. Then the door opens. Chica immediately starts licking and nuzzling the DA’s hand. The DA, eyes bleary and face blotchy, kneels down to scratch Chica with their free hand.

“Hey girl, I’m okay, I’m okay,” they whisper.

“Was that ‘thud’ you?”

“…yeah…I fell.”

He kneels down in front of them. He reaches out to stroke Chica’s back. “What happened?”

“What makes you think anything happened? I could have just tripped. I’m a walking disaster, if you recall.”

“Buddy, we’ve been living together for a while now. I can tell when something’s up with you.”

Before he can continue, something in their century-old gaze shatters. They collapse to the floor, shuddering and spent, and completely oblivious to a whimpering Chica nudging at their shoulder with her nose.

Mark drops to the floor and embraces them for the second time that day. This time, however, their arms wrap around his waist like a vice, face pressing into his chest as they hyperventilate. Their hands grab fistfuls of his baggy shirt.

(In the back of his head, he  _ marvels  _ at the contact. He doesn’t think he’s ever touched them this much in his life. Not when he was sober, anyway, but he doesn’t want to think about  _ those  _ circumstances again.)

“Mark, I don’t know…” they trail off into a hiccupping sob. “I don’t know if I  _ want _ to know what happened to me.”

The shock hits first. Then a hint of relief, followed by utter shame at the thought. “What?”

“I have these  _ awful _ nightmares, almost every night,” they admit in a shaken voice. “It’s normally just these whispering shadows crawling over my skin, but this time… _ god,  _ I think something really  _ terrible  _ happened to me. I kept seeing flashes of gunfire, I hear echoes of screaming, bones cracking, but  _ I don’t know what they mean  _ and I can’t decide if that’s  _ worse _ than if I remembered. Mark, I don’t know who I am, and I’m so tired of being scared all the time,  _ I don’t even know what I’m scared of _ …”

Mark holds onto them as if he’s the only thing keeping them above water as they ramble without direction. He doesn’t speak this time. As their panic-stricken words twiddle into soft breaths and their vice grip on his shirt loosens, he helps them off the floor and leads them back to their bedroom. Chica pads softly after them.

After a moment of debating, Mark settles them on top of the twisted bedcovers and then he sits next to them. He doesn’t relax until they grab his hand, gaze still haunted and faraway. Chica leaps onto the bed and rests her head in the DA’s lap. Mark reaches over to stroke behind his doggo’s ears.

Mark spares a glance around the room. He hasn’t been in here since the first month his friend moved in. They hadn’t had any belongings when they moved in, but as they've worked as his cameraman (cameraperson?), they saved enough money to buy decorations and other knickknacks, leaving them with a less-impersonal living space. A glowing white alarm clock rests on the nightstand along with a lamp with a snowflake patterned shade. The laptop he bought them sits on a desk in the corner, along with a pile of notebooks. Various articles of clothing and accessories are strewn about the single dresser and the ebony beanbag chair (a gift from Tyler that his friend pretends to hate but they still bring it downstairs for videogame nights when the couch is full). Their growing collection of books is piled dangerously high on top of the dresser.

Mark’s attention, however, fixates on the single mirror in the room. It’s on the floor, covered with a sheet. The only reason he knows it’s the mirror is the familiar shape and because it was the only other thing in the room when the DA first arrived.

_ “Have you never smiled at your reflection before?” _

Their reaction to the question had been so strange. Mark thinks further back, to the night he discovered their insomniac tendencies.

_ I saw my reflection in the window and had this urge to throw a chair through it… _

He never thought of how they avoid seeing any pictures he takes of them to remind himself that  _ they’re here _ , or how they walk out of the house with completely chaotic hair. Ethan once jokingly asked if they’d looked in the mirror before coming outside, because a large tuft of Chica’s fur had been trapped in their hair. They looked so stricken that Ethan immediately backpedaled and took the fur out himself.

_ Their reflection. What bothers them so much about their reflection? _

“Why are they gone?”

Mark stiffens again, his hand freezing mid-stroke on Chica’s head. “What was that?”

“The shadows,” they continue in a groggy voice. “They’re only gone when I’m near you. But…I don’t know why…”

Part of him desperately wants to romanticize this revelation, but instead it only further unsettles him.

_ Whispering shadows…and they go away when he’s near. _

_ Something’s wrong.  _ Very _ wrong, about all of this. _

But his friend’s day has been unpleasant enough.  His grip on their hand tightens. He scooches closer and leans back against the headboard beside them. They tuck their head against his shoulder, and he tilts his head to rest atop theirs.

“Then I’ll stick around. Keep them off your back,” he promises.

They grace him with a comforted smile. He’s never felt more unworthy of the gesture.

“I still want to find out who I am,” they clarify, almost apologetically. “I didn’t mean it before, when I said I didn’t. I’m just…”

“You’re scared,” Mark finishes. “I know. But me, Tyler, Ethan, and everyone…we’re here for you. We’ll keep you safe, like I said when we met. I promise.”

_ I’ll die trying. _

They smile again.Their thumb brushes across the back of his hand as they snuggle closer to him.  As Mark feels them drift off to sleep, he presses a brief kiss to their forehead.  He has only one last, intrusive thought before he joins them in slumber:

_ We’re running out of time. _

**Author's Note:**

> So this was the second Acting Attorney Prompt I ever wrote for the fandom! We've come a long way since then, haven't we? Anywhoodle, if last installment was a slew of Hamilton References, expect a slew of lyrics and quotes from Anastasia for this one. Hope you guys like it!
> 
> And as a reminder, this is ACTOR Mark, NOT real Mark. I don't like writing for real people and their lives, and let's face it, this universe is a slippery slope that he created. Since there's not a proper tag for Actor Mark, I made my own, because I don't want there to be any confusion. This is the actor, Mark Iplier, not Fischbach. Thank you for your patience!


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